know.”
“Did she have any other friends—at school or . . . otherwise?”
Kizzy shakes her head.
“Rose was quiet. Really quiet. Shy, you know? She wouldn’t speak to someone she didn’t know. She used to follow me round, like my shadow. I would’ve known if she had other friends, and . . .”
She shrugs, and then her shoulders droop again.
They exchange looks again.
I address Margaret. “You two seem to have stayed close.”
Margaret glares at me.
“We married cousins. Steve and Bobby work together.”
“Oh, I see. The Jankos weren’t close to your family?”
“No.”
“What did you think of Ivo Janko?”
Margaret snorts but doesn’t answer.
“You didn’t like him?”
Kizzy frowns, deepening the creases in her forehead.
“How well did you know him before the wedding—or any of the family?”
“We didn’t, really. No one knew them well. They were sort of private— different.”
She looks at her sister, for help.
Margaret says, “Kizzy means they weren’t well liked.”
“It was funny. Ivo really made a play for Rose—didn’t he, Marg? And lots of girls hung round him. Girls who didn’t care about the family. Rose seemed like the last girl he would ever . . .”
She looks down, as if she feels disloyal. Margaret takes over.
“Too pretty by half. You shouldn’t marry a man who’s prettier than you, was my feeling.”
“They didn’t seem like an obvious couple, then?”
Margaret shakes her head and tuts.
“Rose was so quiet. She should’ve chosen someone . . . sweet. Ivo wasn’t sweet. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.”
She looks at her sister.
Kizzy looks miserable now, clutching her mug of tea. She chews her plump lower lip and speaks so quietly I have to lean forward to catch the words.
“I couldn’t believe it when they told me she’d run off—and I hadn’t heard a thing. I thought, where else would she go? Who else did she know? I kept waiting for her to turn up. But she didn’t. I was fed up. I thought she’d come to me if she wanted, but she didn’t want. I had two kids by then—what was I supposed to do?”
She looks at me again, the emotion animating her face, making her look younger, prettier. I feel a stab of pity.
“What do you think happened?”
“I dunno, do I? I wouldn’t be surprised if he treated her bad, but . . . I’m surprised she had the guts to go.”
She says the last sentence with a break in her voice, looking out the window.
“I’ve got to go and get the boys.”
“Kizzy, have you ever wondered if Rose was dead?”
Kizzy looks around, her mouth opening. She looks genuinely shocked.
“What? No! That’s a terrible thing to say! I’m sure she’s alive. She just had to . . . Maybe she went abroad . . . I don’t know.”
Margaret draws herself away from me in distaste.
“That’s a wicked thing to say.”
“Your father thinks she’s dead. After your mother died, he thought she would have heard . . . got in touch.”
Margaret mutters a curse under her breath.
“Dad . . . Jesus.”
Kizzy rolls her eyes and gets up. Her eyes gleam with unshed tears. “I’ve got to go. They’ll be standing around in the cold. She’s not dead.” On the Formica wall there are framed portraits of two stiffly smiling little boys with haircuts that make them look like miniature squaddies. One of them has the heavy jaw that is such a feature of Rose’s photographs. Her nephews.
Margaret stands up, too.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can tell you, mister. I hope you find her, though, and I hope Ivo Janko gets what he deserves.”
Kizzy Wilson picks up a leather jacket, and we file outside. I thank them for their help. Her sister stands like a stocky sentinel in the doorway of the trailer—in case I try to sneak back in? A few yards away, Kizzy pauses for a moment.
“If I think of anything, I’ll ring you.”
“Thanks. Anything at all, even if it seems stupid.”
She hunches her shoulders against the
“Did she have any other friends—at school or . . . otherwise?”
Kizzy shakes her head.
“Rose was quiet. Really quiet. Shy, you know? She wouldn’t speak to someone she didn’t know. She used to follow me round, like my shadow. I would’ve known if she had other friends, and . . .”
She shrugs, and then her shoulders droop again.
They exchange looks again.
I address Margaret. “You two seem to have stayed close.”
Margaret glares at me.
“We married cousins. Steve and Bobby work together.”
“Oh, I see. The Jankos weren’t close to your family?”
“No.”
“What did you think of Ivo Janko?”
Margaret snorts but doesn’t answer.
“You didn’t like him?”
Kizzy frowns, deepening the creases in her forehead.
“How well did you know him before the wedding—or any of the family?”
“We didn’t, really. No one knew them well. They were sort of private— different.”
She looks at her sister, for help.
Margaret says, “Kizzy means they weren’t well liked.”
“It was funny. Ivo really made a play for Rose—didn’t he, Marg? And lots of girls hung round him. Girls who didn’t care about the family. Rose seemed like the last girl he would ever . . .”
She looks down, as if she feels disloyal. Margaret takes over.
“Too pretty by half. You shouldn’t marry a man who’s prettier than you, was my feeling.”
“They didn’t seem like an obvious couple, then?”
Margaret shakes her head and tuts.
“Rose was so quiet. She should’ve chosen someone . . . sweet. Ivo wasn’t sweet. He didn’t care about anyone but himself.”
She looks at her sister.
Kizzy looks miserable now, clutching her mug of tea. She chews her plump lower lip and speaks so quietly I have to lean forward to catch the words.
“I couldn’t believe it when they told me she’d run off—and I hadn’t heard a thing. I thought, where else would she go? Who else did she know? I kept waiting for her to turn up. But she didn’t. I was fed up. I thought she’d come to me if she wanted, but she didn’t want. I had two kids by then—what was I supposed to do?”
She looks at me again, the emotion animating her face, making her look younger, prettier. I feel a stab of pity.
“What do you think happened?”
“I dunno, do I? I wouldn’t be surprised if he treated her bad, but . . . I’m surprised she had the guts to go.”
She says the last sentence with a break in her voice, looking out the window.
“I’ve got to go and get the boys.”
“Kizzy, have you ever wondered if Rose was dead?”
Kizzy looks around, her mouth opening. She looks genuinely shocked.
“What? No! That’s a terrible thing to say! I’m sure she’s alive. She just had to . . . Maybe she went abroad . . . I don’t know.”
Margaret draws herself away from me in distaste.
“That’s a wicked thing to say.”
“Your father thinks she’s dead. After your mother died, he thought she would have heard . . . got in touch.”
Margaret mutters a curse under her breath.
“Dad . . . Jesus.”
Kizzy rolls her eyes and gets up. Her eyes gleam with unshed tears. “I’ve got to go. They’ll be standing around in the cold. She’s not dead.” On the Formica wall there are framed portraits of two stiffly smiling little boys with haircuts that make them look like miniature squaddies. One of them has the heavy jaw that is such a feature of Rose’s photographs. Her nephews.
Margaret stands up, too.
“I’m afraid there’s nothing else we can tell you, mister. I hope you find her, though, and I hope Ivo Janko gets what he deserves.”
Kizzy Wilson picks up a leather jacket, and we file outside. I thank them for their help. Her sister stands like a stocky sentinel in the doorway of the trailer—in case I try to sneak back in? A few yards away, Kizzy pauses for a moment.
“If I think of anything, I’ll ring you.”
“Thanks. Anything at all, even if it seems stupid.”
She hunches her shoulders against the
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